


Kettle

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 11:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5331998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingolfin’s interrupted in his Maedhros-appreciation by the knowledge that Fëanor has scolded his ‘distracting’ son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kettle

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’d never meant, of course, to linger here so long. He’d simply been passing through, though he can’t remember anymore his original destination. When he glanced through the open pillars to the tiny courtyard, his breath caught in his throat, and Ñolofinwë slowed, becoming rooted to the spot.

Nelyafinwë is visiting, as he so often is. Though he usually waits for his favourite cousin in the training yard, at the gates, or in Findekáno’s rooms themselves, Nelyafinwë has clearly seen fit to wander Ñolofinwë’s estate. He’s now stretched along one wooden bench amidst the lush grass and well-tended flowers, his silken robes clinging to all his curves and his crimson hair fanned out around his handsome face, spilling over the edge to brush the earth. His long lashes lie against his freckled cheeks, plush lips parted as he breathes shallowly. The steady rise and fall of his thin chest is mesmerizing. The elegant lines of his long limbs are strangely poetic. He’s _beautiful_ , as he always is, but now especially so, highlighted in the warm midday sun and set in such a peaceful slumber. It’s difficult to find the sons of Fëanáro in a state of true innocence.

He isn’t only Fëanáro’s son, which makes him forbidden enough—he’s Ñolofinwë’s nephew, firstborn and first loved, fully in his prime now but nonetheless too young for Ñolofinwë. Guilt urges Ñolofinwë to move, but Nelyafinwë’s allure whispers for him to stay. Nelyafinwë looks like his father in some respects—well-chiseled, fiery and _strong_ —but like his mother in others: colourful and soft. Every time he comes here, he offers new temptation. He’s an ever-blooming flower, blossoms greater and more fragrant on every examination. If not for Findekáno’s happiness, Ñolofinwë might wish that Nelyafinwë never visited at all.

He becomes abruptly aware of footsteps and turns for them, though it takes great effort to tear his eyes away from Nelyafinwë’s sleeping form. Findekáno turns a corner and strolls down the marble corridor, stopping once at the sight of Ñolofinwë but then continuing on. 

Nelyafinwë hasn’t stirred from the echo of Findekáno’s footsteps, and it causes Ñolofinwë’s voice to lower as he asks, “Where had you gotten off to? You left a guest waiting.”

Findekáno frowns. He glances out to the courtyard, eyes as appreciative as Ñolofinwë’s, and then he answers, “I... I was not aware Maitimo had come to me first.”

“You went to him?” Ñolofinwë concludes. It makes him wish, not for the first time, that things were better between him and his brother, so that their sons, so clearly adoring of one another, need not be so far apart. But that’s another conversation for another day, which would likely set Fëanáro into another rage. When Findekáno only nods, looking uncomfortably away, Ñolofinwë asks, “And what happened there...?” He can see, though Findekáno is clearly attempting to hide it, that’s something’s gone wrong. 

Findekáno’s mouth opens. For a moment, he says nothing. Then he quietly answers, “I... Uncle Curufinwë wished to speak with me.” Ñolofinwë’s brow twitches up. He doesn’t need to directly ask: the question obvious. Findekáno still fidgets first but has never been one to lie to his father, and thus slowly explains, “He... he requested that I...” He sucks in a heavy breath, then admits dully, “that I stop coming over to be such a ‘distraction’ to his Nelyo.”

Ñolofinwë, shocked, snorts before he can stop himself. He quickly quells down the bitter laughter that threatens to follow, but Findekáno’s already looked sideways at him. Poor Findekáno looks decidedly awkward, unsure, though he’s done nothing wrong in his whole life. It’s clear that his uncle’s accusation troubled him. So Ñolofinwë tightly admits, “That is very rich.” Findekáno frowns but asks nothing further. 

Instead, he lets his gaze return to the bench, where Nelyafinwë sleeps on, blissfully unaware of his line’s fierce possessiveness. Though many in their family still seem not to know, Ñolofinwë sees the burning devotion in his son’s eyes. He knows that however much Findekáno has entranced Nelyafinwë, the feeling is entirely mutual. 

Before he can find the right words to comfort Findekáno, Findekáno murmurs, “It was never my intent to ensnare him so.” The hush and the reverence in the confession lets Ñolofinwë know that Findekáno is aware of his father’s understanding and feels comfortable in confiding this. “I would not be so vain, and I was surprised and utterly delighted when Maitimo first gave me the opportunity. I could not resist.”

Ñolofinwë doesn’t blame him. Ñolofinwë lifts one hand to gently pat Findekáno’s shoulder, then squeeze it, and he promises, “Do not fret. I will take care of this.” Findekáno doesn’t look so sure. But it shouldn’t matter. Though such temper and self-preservation doesn’t run nearly as much in their veins as Fëanáro’s, Findekáno has grown more valiant that any give him credit for. He’s very just in his love, and he won’t back down from it. Ñolofinwë has already accepted that there is nothing he, Fëanáro, or any of their line may do to separate the two. It was fruitless and cruel of Fëanáro to try. 

With a final look at the breathtaking beauty lounging in his courtyard, Ñolofinwë takes his leave. He knows that Findekáno has also gone forward in his wake, likely to admire Nelyafinwë’s handsome form before bidding him tenderly awake. 

Ñolofinwë has a letter to write. He only wishes he could voice his true feelings in it and betray the ironic truth of just who it is that has raised the most irresistible temptation.


End file.
